for who you end up, for who you may be;
Something now inspires me to wake up everyday.
It could be the new routines, a tight grip on the right habits,
discarding of the not-so-newfound fiction that always opened
with “Once upon a time there was a sty of a man…”
Maybe it’s just a change in brain chemistry; a purely systematic
re-disciplining of those connections that dulled, died, caught
a layer of dust from inactivity and heavy drinking.
(Exception to the stress-centers, which would light up like patrol lights
and traffic cameras every time I examined these rooms in my head.)
Or perhaps all of the above since hopping back on the wagon,
this time without a carabiner and static rope clipped to the belt
loop in case I felt like dragging myself alongside the teetotalers
who’ve decided that restraint is easier than breathing when said
breath doesn’t smell like you’ve sucked an exhaust pipe to
completion.
I would drink away my days and the liquor would proceed
to drink away my months—who was the bigger lush?
This is a case where it’s hard to blame the virus in the areas
where the host could have been more deliberate and prudent
to outcome.
But I do think the more invested I am in understanding where I’m
distancing myself from—more specifically in finding resolve and forgive-
ness and seeing it as part of the load-bearing weight—the more committed
I can remain at keeping that distance: associative dissociation; being
the gunman and gun-shy; declaring a choice within the power politics
between states of mind; holding front vs. holding center; severing
the approaches that grip fast to the income of reward and punishment
of guilt. Seeing a lesson, loaded (less and less), as tires spin and local views
slim to a single smudge. One horizon, dark and invariant, releasing the
rungs to another with hope bearded like gum resin gloss.
Like pretty much everyone else everywhere I’ll still have those rooms
accessible in memory—the bags within bags, the remains within remains.
The photo albums on the hard-drive, receipts I have yet to throw away,
the same art still strung on the walls (that I chose especially because they
promote introspection). Although hung in different positions every fourth
or fifth season passing, they’ve seen every transition from ages 22 through
29, and have stared back through each dedicated glare, half-hearted glance,
and every “maybe I’ll catch something new to internalize this time. Hmph.”
“Perhaps.”
They’ve witnessed the hunt to become the “perfect gentleman,” they’ve
seen devolving into the neanderthal with a bottle and a dreamcatcher.
And back again.
Rinse, repeat.
As Auden had written, “look in the atlas and you’ll find it there:
we cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.”
What shall I say now?
“Look on the internet map and you’ll find exactly what you want
and didn’t need: a color-accurate street view, slightly different now
from point of capture, with a candid snapshot of bystanders or
a string of old Beemers with flat tires pressed against a village green.
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.”
“Not anymore.”